


The Bonds of Earth

by FierceWeeBadger



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:54:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22287472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FierceWeeBadger/pseuds/FierceWeeBadger
Summary: When James Fraser, astronaut and lifelong bachelor, suffers a workplace accident that threatens his next mission, he turns to the only person who might be able to fix him. But in the process of saving his hand, will he lose his heart instead?
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser
Comments: 238
Kudos: 482





	1. Better Than Perfect

_Paris, November 2035_

It had been a long day. A very long day, in a long week, in a long month. _Who are you kidding? It’s been a bloody long_ year _,_ Claire admitted to herself with a sigh. 

She was utterly exhausted, feeling like nothing so much as a ball of dough that had been rolled too thin, gone nearly transparent in places. She didn’t know how much longer she could keep up this frenetic pace at work. But the thought of slowing down at all, of allowing herself time to think and feel all the things she had been assiduously avoiding… well, that scared her even more than exhaustion did. 

Walking home from her shift past her local bistro, the sandwich board sign outside caught her eye. _‘Le Beaujolais Nouveau est arrivé!’_ With a shock, she realised it must already be the end of November, which she supposed explained the distinct chill in the air. _Jesus H Roosevelt Christ, Beauchamp, how do you not know what month it is?_

A slight shiver ran through her body; whether from the cold or the realisation of just how disconnected she had become, she wasn’t quite sure. When was the last time she had done something _fun_? Something aside from the _work-eat-sleep-repeat_ cycle she had adopted ever since —

_Oh sod it_ , she thought, deciding on impulse to pop in for a quick glass of red. It was a beautiful autumn evening in the most enchanting city in the world, and the thought of spending it in her lonely flat (containing nothing but Netflix and an empty fridge) was suddenly too much to bear. Maybe chatting up some handsome stranger would give her a bit of her old confidence back. The very thought, as ridiculous and unlikely as it was (Claire never having been big on flirting), put a small smirk on her face as she pushed through the door. 

And that was how she found herself seated at the bar that Thursday evening. The place was nearly empty, 6 o’clock considered unfashionably early by most Parisians. She supposed her flirting skills would just have to remain as rusty as ever. Oh well, at least the wine was good. 

Just as she took the final sip from her glass, her phone pinged in her coat pocket. She scrambled to retrieve it, desperately hoping that it wasn’t a message from the hospital. Of course, Claire wasn’t on call tonight or she would never have gone for a drink, but maybe there was an emergency with one of her patients. 

She heaved a sigh of relief. It was just a text from her landlord, letting her know that the dodgy front doorknob (which had resulted in her being locked out of her flat on multiple occasions) had finally been fixed. _Well, merci for small miracles, that only took three months to sort out._

As she was busy typing out a quick reply of thanks, Claire sensed someone sit down on the stool to her left. 

“ _Un autre?_ ” the bartender enquired disinterestedly of the newcomer. 

“ _Oui, un pour moi est un pour madame aussi, s’il vous plaît_ ,” came the reply. 

The voice was deep and inviting, and with just a hint of mischief — as if a grin was being held firmly in check. Despite his near-perfect French accent, a jolt of recognition coursed through Claire’s body like an electric shock. 

She would recognise that voice anywhere. It was, after all, a voice she heard quite often in her dreams.

* * *

_Paris, 8 months earlier_

“ _Ah Dhia_ , how could I have been such a damned eejit, John? One second of inattention and now I’ve ruined my chances of ever going up again!”

“You know it wasn’t your fault, Jamie. That simulator hatch has been faulty for months. I’ve almost caught my own hand in it a few times,” John Grey replied calmly, trying to appeal to his Commander’s logical side, though he knew the effort was likely futile.

“Aye, we all _kent_ the damned hatch was dangerous, which is why I should’ve been more careful! And where is this _feckin’_ doctor we’ve come all this way to see? I dinna suppose he’ll see fit to grace us with his presence anytime soon?”

“No, I don’t suppose _he_ will,” came the reply in smartly accented English as the curtain around his bed was pulled back, making the two men’s heads jerk around in surprise. 

James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser had lived quite a remarkable life. He had grown up amongst the beauty of the Scottish Highlands, where the wild moors and fathomless lochs were enough to fill a man with a bone-deep and visceral longing. He had traveled widely and marvelled at the wonders of the world, been humbled in the shadow of the tallest mountains, and drifted serenely on the waters of the bluest seas. And he had seen the Earth as a pale blue dot in the vastness of space, whilst floating weightless and untethered, utterly alone in the universe.

Yet the sight before him still stole his breath away as few things in his life had ever done. 

“I’m Claire Beauchamp, and I’ll be your _feckin’ doctor_ for the day,” she remarked with acid in her tone but a sparkle of amusement in her eye, looking down to double-check the tablet in her hand. “So, Mr. Fraser, I understand you’ve injured your hand in a workplace accident. Is that right?”

Jamie coughed, trying to jump-start his vocal cords back into functional working order. “Aye, Doctor, managed to crush it quite nicely.”

She gave him an appraising look — which made his mouth go dry — before turning her attention to the x-ray she popped onto the light board. “Mmmm, indeed you have, I’m afraid. Three metacarpals with multiple fractures. I’ll get my residents to prep you for surgery this afternoon. It says on your chart that the accident happened in Germany, but you were flown in by medevac this morning. Might I ask why? There are plenty of good orthopaedic surgeons closer to home.”

Jamie just stared at her in dumbfounded silence, unable to put words together in a coherent order. Thankfully, John filled the awkward pause, always the reliable second-in-command.

“The injury happened during a training simulation. We’re based over at the European Astronaut Centre in Cologne. While I’m sure there are plenty of excellent surgeons there, our medical specialist said the best one in Europe was here. And we need the best if the Commander’s to get his hand working again in time for our next mission.” 

John gripped Jamie’s shoulder briefly in a gesture of reassurance, as if to say ‘ _You_ will _be on that mission, damn you, don’t give up yet.'_ Jamie shrugged off the touch; he knew that his friend meant well, but he simply couldn’t allow himself to engage in false optimism. It would only make things worse when reality came crashing down. 

Opening and closing his hands into fists while he spoke, John continued his explanation. “You see, the positive air pressure inside spacesuits means you need incredibly strong hands to be able to function and grip things effectively. Moving around in zero-G is also very hand-intensive, pulling and pushing yourself around the ship since legs are no longer of much use. So Jamie’s hand needs to not just be _‘okay’_ by everyday standards, it needs to be _better than perfect_.”

“No pressure though, Doc,” Jamie added dryly, through a grimace of pain which he tried his best to hide.

The look on her face when she turned her eyes on him could only be described as ‘the cat that got the cream.’ 

“No worries there, Mr. Fraser. I happen to know someone with two hands that are better than perfect, and they do love a challenge.”

* * *

Jamie woke from the anaesthesia feeling groggy and disoriented, fighting the urge to be violently ill. Looking down at his maimed right hand (not his dominant hand — a very small silver lining, but he’d take what he could get), he couldn’t tell much. With the white bandages and gauze, it looked like the appendage of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, at least several times its normal size and lying uselessly by his side. 

He closed his eyes again, trying his best to stop the room from spinning, when he heard the door open and light footfalls approach the bed. It was _her_ , he knew; his disarming Sassenach doctor, the one who made his wame feel like he was perched at the top of a roller coaster. 

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Jamie slowly opened his eyes to find Doctor Beauchamp’s staring down at him. They were the colour of a well-aged whisky, flecked with bits of amber that sparkled in the dim light coming through the blinds. A smile lit up her face when their eyes met.

“Glad to see you’re awake, Mr. Fraser. How are you feeling?” she asked, tapping away at the tablet in her hand.

“No’ gonna lie, I’ve had better days. But you tell me, how did it go, Doc?” Jamie managed to grumble through a throat that felt like he’d been swallowing gravel.

“Honestly, it went as well as it possibly could have, considering what a number you did on your hand, Mr. Fraser. With the addition of a few pins and screws, you’re now officially a bionic man. Congratulations.” Claire’s tone was flippant, but her eyes didn’t meet Jamie’s as she spoke, and he felt the grip of panic seize his gut. 

“But will it be useful again? Am I crippled, or is there a chance it could be as it was before?” He tried to keep the pleading note out of his voice, but only partially succeeded. “And please, call me Jamie. I only kent one Mr. Fraser, and that was my father.”

She gave him a serious look that he couldn’t quite read. Was there good news or bad lurking behind those whisky eyes? Jamie wasn’t sure, but he suddenly realised that the discomfort he was feeling only a moment ago was now gone. It was as if her very presence blasted the pain from his mind, his consciousness unable to hold both it and her at the same time. 

When she finally spoke, he could hear the genuine concern in her voice. “I believe there is a good chance you’ll make a full recovery, Jamie. Luckily, the bones were cleanly broken rather than crushed, which would have meant a much worse prognosis. But it’s going to be a long road to recovery and you’ll need to take your rehab seriously and stick to the regimen. I assume the Space Agency has the resources to access the best physical therapists in the business.”

“Aye? And what does ‘good chance’ mean exactly, Doctor Beauchamp? I’m a numbers man, ye ken. Please tell it to me straight. What are my odds?”

Claire didn’t want to answer; recovery wasn’t something easily quantifiable. Medicine was still at times as much art as science. Although she felt confident that the procedure had gone well, there was no telling what other variables might emerge in the coming days, weeks or months ahead. But she could see the need behind his eyes, and in that moment she could deny him nothing. 

“I’d say the odds are in your favour...maybe 70-30 if I had to put a number on it.”

The air went out of Jamie’s lungs in a whoosh of pure relief. It wasn’t a guarantee, but there was _hope_ , and that was more than he had expected when he’d arrived in Paris that morning. 

“Thank ye, Doctor Beauchamp, truly. My job, it’s...well, it’s _everything_ to me. Ye dinna ken how much this means to me.”

“Oh, I think I just might. I feel the same way about being a surgeon,” she remarked with an openness that shocked her. “Now get some rest and I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

She turned back just as she reached the door, giving Jamie a quick wink over her shoulder. 

“And you can call me Claire.” 

* * *

_Call me Claire? Call me effing Claire?! What on earth were you thinking, Beauchamp? And a wink? Seriously? A WINK?! You have never been so unprofessional in your entire life. Get a hold of yourself._

Claire continued to mentally berate herself as she stalked down the hallway towards the on-call room. She needed some privacy and a few moments to gather the bits of her shattered professional detachment back together. Urgently. 

What was it about James Fraser that had her so frazzled? He was handsome, of course — a beautifully made man if she’d ever seen one. But that wasn’t it. _Well, not_ all _of it, anyway,_ she admitted ruefully. 

Maybe it was that she could see parts of herself in him. He was obviously trying to put on a brave face, not let anyone see how much pain he was in or how terrified he was that his dreams might have been cut short on a random Tuesday morning in March. And how desperate he was for hope, for some lifeline that could pull him back to safety. 

And Claire knew _she_ was that lifeline. The way he looked at her with those stormy blue eyes, like she was his calm centre in the midst of a hurricane… it cut her to the core. 

She wanted to fix him more desperately than she had wanted anything in a very long time. 

_But swooning like a schoolgirl isn’t going to do that, Beauchamp. He needs Claire the surgeon, not Claire the woman._

And so she put her armour of professionalism back on and walked out the door. 

Back to work. 

* * *

Over the next week, Claire did a reasonable job of keeping her detachment intact, at least during the hours she was physically in the hospital. 

Perhaps she checked on Jamie a bit more frequently than was strictly required, lingered a bit longer than she did with her other patients. But she didn’t touch him any more than was medically necessary, and she kept the small talk to safe topics (the unseasonably warm weather, the latest superfood craze, whether French wines were truly superior to Spanish and Italian). There were definitely no more winks, _thank you very much_. 

They both put on a good show of ignoring how Jamie’s heart rate monitor shot up whenever she entered the room. They pretended they didn’t catch each other’s occasional lingering glances — his following the escaped curls that framed her face, hers tracing the strong lines of his chest just visible beneath the thin hospital gown. 

On more than one night, Jamie woke in the dark, blood pounding in his ears and hand wrapped firmly around his cock. But he stopped immediately and chastised himself for even thinking such things. _Have ye no shame, man? She’s a professional, one of the best surgeons in Europe doing her best to fix what ye broke with yer carelessness. After all she’s done for ye, how can ye dare to disrespect her so?_

Little could he imagine that Claire showed no such restraint in the dark hours of the night, picturing blue eyes and red locks as she brought herself to completion. Yes, she felt slightly ashamed of doing so, not least because she had a boyfriend (though Frank had been ‘too busy’ to come over more than once in the last fortnight). But she justified her nightly indulgence as the price required to maintain her equanimity during the day, which was really the most important thing, after all. _And it’s not as if it’s hurting anyone… right?_

But in what seemed the blink of an eye, the week had passed and it was time for James Fraser to be discharged and handed over to the physical therapists. Having made amazing progress in such a short time, he no longer needed a surgeon; Doctor Beauchamp, M.D. was now superfluous to his world. 

Their goodbye was brief and cordial. She wished him well in his recovery. He thanked her sincerely for everything she’d done to make that possible. 

On the train back to Cologne, Jamie knew he should feel relieved, but all he felt was strangely hollow. In bed that night, Claire stared at the ceiling for hours, just praying for sleep to take her. 

* * *

_Paris, present day_

Claire had always felt that the phrase ‘ _heart skipped a beat_ ’ was a silly and overused cliche. But the moment she heard Jamie’s voice for the first time in 8 months, she couldn’t deny there was some truth behind it as well. 

She turned her head slowly in his direction until whisky eyes met blue. God, he was even more handsome than she remembered, dressed now in jeans and a leather jacket instead of a hospital gown. 

“How’s your hand, Mr. Fraser?” she asked when finally able to get words past her lips.

“Weel, it’s no’ yet better than perfect, but I reckon it’s on the way. I did have the best feckin’ doctor in Europe fixin’ it for me, ye ken?”

Claire couldn’t stop the laugh that burst from her chest. She struggled to recall the last time she had genuinely laughed; she had almost forgotten how good it felt. 

“May I?” she inquired tentatively, reaching out for his hand. Jamie gave a brief nod and held it out for her inspection, his eyes never leaving her face. 

At the first touch, they both froze for a moment as if they had gripped a live wire. Whatever this was between them, it was still there…and it was _clearly_ mutual. 

She turned his hand over slowly in her own; examining the scars, bending his fingers to check the range of motion, feeling each tendon and the strong muscles holding this amazing piece of machinery together. 

When she finally let go, Jamie felt the loss acutely. _If her touch feels sae bonny on yer hand…_ He cut that thought off abruptly. 

“It’s verra fine to see ye again, Claire. Will ye join me for a drink?” 

She hesitated for a moment before replying. “I don’t socialise with patients, Mr. Fraser.”

“I’m no’ yer patient any longer, and I dinna have any intention of ever being so again, God willing. And I’ve told ye before, call me Jamie.”

He could see the struggle behind her eyes, the moment’s hesitation perched on the precipice of ‘maybe’ and ‘shouldn’t.’ 

“Alright, Jamie,” she finally relented. “But it would be unwise for me to keep drinking without some food in my stomach.”

“Aye, that’s true enough. Does that mean yer askin’ me out on a date, Sassenach?”

A matching grin lit both their faces. 

Her only reply was a wink. 


	2. Ready or Not

_Paris, 2035_

Jamie and Claire abandoned their bar stools for a cozy table by the window, bathed in the glow of a single candle perched between them.

They sipped their wine in silence for a minute before Claire blurted out the question that was uppermost in her mind. “What brings you back to Paris, Jamie? In town for long?”

“The crew and I just got in yesterday. Here for a fortnight to sort out some bits and bobs at headquarters. Paperwork. Never-ending medical checks,” he chuckled softly. “All the less fun parts of the job, I’m afraid.”

A small sigh of relief escaped her lips, from a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. “So...you’re still an astronaut then?”

The smile that lit Jamie’s face was one of pure, unadulterated joy. It was such a childlike expression that Claire could vividly picture the small boy he had once been, curls flying wildly as he zoomed around the house — toy rocket ship raised high above his head — leaping from furniture despite shouted injunctions to _“be careful!”_

“Aye, lass, I am still. And I thank God for it every day. I dinna ken how to be anything else.”

She could see the gratitude in his face, not just for God but for her as well; for helping to save a little boy’s dreams and a brave man’s heart. There were words there, so many words lurking behind those eyes, but he seemed to recognise that the speaking of them was unnecessary.

The intensity of their gaze was almost overwhelming, and Claire was actually relieved when the arrival of their surly waiter burst the moment like a soap bubble. 

As he sloped away with their orders, they turned back to their conversation with a bit more of the awkward self-consciousness that Claire normally associated with first dates. 

“And how have ye been since last we met, Claire? Well, I hope.”

Claire paused, not sure how to answer. The past few months had been some of the most tumultuous of her life. Her mentor, Doctor Hildegard — almost a surrogate mother to her, in truth — had passed away in April after a long battle with lung cancer. In June, a patient’s husband, unhinged by grief, had brought a suit against her for wrongful death, alleging medical malpractice. Though ultimately exonerated, the interim suspension and investigation had been an emotional rollercoaster, to say the least. And in the midst of it all, the discovery that her boyfriend was a lying, cheating bastard had been the icing on top of a very unappetising cake. 

Ultimately deciding that none of these were comfortable conversation topics, Claire settled for a vague, “Work has been keeping me busy.”

Thankfully, Jamie didn’t press. Instead, he allowed her to steer the conversation towards his recovery since the accident, some of which he’d done back in Scotland.

“Twas good to be home, ye ken. Though Jenny — my sister, that is — took it upon herself to play drill sergeant, and see to it that I never missed any of my rehab exercises. She’s always been a feisty one, but even more so when she’s with child,” he said, with a good-humoured shake of the head. “I probably owe as much of my recovery to her as to you, Sassenach.”

Claire smiled warmly at this. She had no earthly idea what _Sassenach_ meant, but the way Jamie said it, he obviously intended it affectionately. She considered asking him, but didn’t want to interrupt his story; instead filing it away for future Googling. 

“And I got to spend time with my wee nephew, Jamie. He’s a braw lad; claims he wants to be a ‘spaceman’ too when he’s grown,” Jamie continued, voice tinged with pride. “On our last mission, we worked with a film studio to make a 3D movie about space walks, so I took him to see it at the IMAX in Edinburgh. Though, to be honest, I’m no’ sure he actually believed me when I told him it was his own uncle in the spacesuit,” he admitted with a deep laugh.

Whipping out his phone, Jamie showed Claire the lock screen; a selfie of the two of them together, with matching smiles and ice cream cones the size of Wee Jamie’s face. 

“Aww, look at you two! You look so much alike, especially those blue eyes,” Claire gushed. The sight of him with his nephew — their bond so evident — warmed her blood in a way she found slightly unsettling. 

“Aye, we both have my mam’s eyes. But the lad and Jenny have my da’s black hair.” The hint of sadness in his voice was apparent, and Claire sensed there was heartbreak lurking just below the surface. Moved by an instinct she didn’t have time to question, she reached out and clasped his hand where it rested on the table between them. 

“I’m so sorry, Jamie. I understand what it’s like to lose a parent. Both, actually.”

Meeting her eyes, he turned his hand so it faced upwards and gave hers a light squeeze. She thought he’d pull away then, but instead he continued to hold her hand as he spoke.

“I’m sae sorry to hear that, lass. It isna something I had hoped we’d share. How did ye lose them?”

“They both died when I was very young. I actually don’t remember them much, mostly from photographs and stories my uncle told. Sometimes I wonder if that’s a blessing; that the pain of missing them is less because I was so young,” she answered, keeping her voice level and eyes dry through sheer force of will.

“I dinna ken which pain may be worse,” Jamie replied, with another small squeeze of her hand. “But I do know that, as much as their loss pains me, I’m grateful for every day that I had with my parents. And I’m sorry you didna get the chance to know yours, or they you, Sassenach.”

Claire felt the heaviness in her chest lift slightly at his words; at his recognition that her loss may have been _different_ than his own _,_ but that didn’t mean it was _lesser._

“My mam and my older brother, Willie, were killed in a car crash when I was a lad. But Da passed away last year. Stroke. I was... _away_ at the time,” he sighed, briefly nodding his head towards the ceiling, making it clear exactly _where_ he had been. “They didna see fit to tell me until we got back. 73 days later. Afraid I would be ‘emotionally compromised to the detriment of my duties,’ apparently.”

Claire could feel the anger radiating off of Jamie in waves, though he was obviously trying to keep it in check.

“It took me a long time to forgive Jenny for no’ telling me herself. But she left it up to Mission Control to decide what was best, and I dinna suppose I can fault her for that in the end.”

“Could she have gotten you a message without their approval?” Claire asked, genuinely unsure how space communication actually worked.

Jamie’s serious expression cracked into a wry smile at that. “Aye, lass. The ISS is at what’s called low Earth orbit. We have internet. Email. Skype. It’s not too different from being home. Well, if your home was a one bedroom flat with six people living in it, o’ course.”

They were both still laughing at this colourful image when their food arrived — the conversation halting a bit as they tucked in. Claire suddenly realised she was absolutely ravenous, having eaten nothing all day but a sub-par sandwich from the hospital canteen. She was also feeling the effects of the wine: a slight tingling in her fingertips and a fuzziness in her head. She knew her expressions were becoming less guarded, her gaze roaming more freely across Jamie’s face, chest, arms, hands… He met her eyes then, a small upturning at the corner of his mouth the only indication that he knew _exactly_ what she had just been thinking. 

Claire quickly turned her attention back to her plate, cheeks reddening with embarrassment. “How’s the _cassoulet_ , Jamie?” she asked, trying to cover her awkwardness. 

When he didn’t immediately reply, she looked up again to find a completely unexpected sight: a fork hovering in the space between them. Jamie’s eyes were dark — pupils wide and fixed on Claire — and the tips of his ears had turned a rosy pink. Slowly — so slowly that at first she didn’t realise she was moving — she leaned forward and took the bite into her mouth, savouring the richness of the duck, but even more so the expression on Jamie’s face. 

An expression which said all too clearly that he wanted to take a bite out of _her._

* * *

They opted to stay for dessert and coffee; neither seeming eager for the evening to end. 

Jamie couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so at ease in a woman’s presence. Of course he’d had a few ongoing relationships before, but nothing that would fall into the category of “serious.” Jenny often nagged him about his perpetual bachelor status. _(“It’d be nice to have some wee nieces and nephews underfoot one day, is all I’m sayin’, ye clotheid.”)_

However — in news that would shock no one — as “sexy” as his job may have seemed to them at first, most women weren’t keen for their man to spend upwards of half a year off-planet. That being the case, his romantic entanglements tended to be short-term and casual, driven by the need to scratch a mutual itch rather than any deeper feelings. Not that Jamie didn’t _want_ more, it just didn’t seem to be on the cards for him. 

But talking with Claire just felt so... _right._ She was bright and witty, intelligent and funny. And beyond that, he could sense the hidden depths to her — knew there were shipwrecks there as well as sunken treasures — and he wanted to explore them all, know them all. Which certainly wasn’t a feeling Jamie was used to, and yet he didn’t feel scared by it. Whatever _this_ was, it felt as natural as gravity, and equally unstoppable. 

So while feeding each other bites of _crème brûlée_ _,_ Jamie told Claire about his second family — his crew. 

“Ye’ll remember John Grey from the hospital, I’m sure. He’s my second in command and co-pilot. We’ve been together on every mission since the first. _Ach,_ but we were green young lads then.” Jamie smiled broadly, a hint of mischief glinting in his eyes. “We joined up at the same time, in our early twenties, near to a decade ago now. I was a braw lad but so taken up wi’ my own grand self I could barely fit my heid in my helmet. John never hesitated to bring me down a peg though, keep my head in the game and no’ get too carried away. He’s always been the serious, responsible one.” 

“Yes, I do remember him. You two seemed...very close,” Claire put in, a bit awkwardly.

Jamie burst into a full-body laugh. When he managed to get air back into his lungs, he smirked at Claire knowingly. “Ye mean you thought he was my boyfriend, did ye no’?” 

“Only at first,” she admitted ruefully. “Just an initial impression. Sorry.” Jamie couldn’t help noticing how beautiful she was when she blushed.

“Dinna fash, lass. I’m no’ offended,” he said, reaching out to entwine his fingers with hers once more. “John’s my best mate but he’s...no’ my type.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” she replied, blushing even more furiously. “And the rest of your crew?”

“Aye. We have two flight engineers, Angus and Rupert. It’s their job to keep all the moving parts in working order. Unfortunately for them, the most common thing to break is the toilet,” he chuckled. “Their rock-paper-scissors battles are legendary, as ye can imagine.”

“Oh, indeed. And I’m sure space toilets are marvels of engineering.”

“Maybe I’ll tell ye someday, Sassenach,” Jamie grimaced. “But no’ over dinner.” 

Claire swatted his arm playfully. “And are there any women on your crew, or is this purely a boys’ club?”

Jamie put on a mock offended face. “There are, indeed. The last two crew members are female, in fact, thank ye very much.” He leaned over the table to whisper conspiratorially. “Dinna tell anyone I admitted this, but women actually make better astronauts.”

“Oh, is that so? Why, pray tell?”

“They’re generally smaller. Weigh less. Breathe less oxygen. Eat less food. They’re all around more efficient.” He winked. “Oh, and they tend to smell better.”

“Well, those all sound like excellent reasons to me,” Claire managed between laughs. “So tell me about them.”

“Our Chief Science Officer is a French woman, Annalise. She heads up the experiments to be conducted on each mission. O’ course we all participate — all astronauts are really scientists, ye ken — but she’s in charge of keeping everything on track, prepping the payloads, etc. A bit of a firecracker but smart as a whip, that one,” he said, nodding approvingly. “And then there’s our medical officer, Malva. I still dinna ken her all that well. She’s a new addition to the crew. Never been up before, but seems to know her business well enough.”

“They sound like a lovely bunch, Jamie. And I’m sure they all feel very lucky to have you as their Commander.”

Now it was Jamie’s turn to blush, though his showed more in his ears than his cheeks. Deciding that he’d done more than his fair share of talking in the last few minutes, he flipped the conversation with a question.

“And what about you, Doctor Beauchamp? Do ye have a ‘crew’?”

“Oh,” Claire started, clearly not sure exactly what (or perhaps how much?) she should say. “I work with lots of doctors and nurses at the hospital; plenty of cordial working relationships. But I guess I really only have two proper _friends_ here in Paris.” She shrugged, a show of casualness that Jamie didn’t quite believe. “Joe is a fellow surgeon, from Boston originally. He moved here with his wife when she landed her dream job at UNESCO. I guess he’s a bit like John is to you; tells it to me straight, keeps me honest, ready with a supportive ear or a smack upside the head depending on what’s needed at the time.”

Jamie nodded knowingly at this. “Aye, that does sound about right. And the other? Ye said two, did ye no’?”

“The _other_ would be my next-door neighbour, Gillian,” Claire answered, exasperation clear in her tone. “Honestly, I’m not even sure how we’re friends. She’s my polar opposite. Works in fashion. Party girl. Total loose canon.”

“Gillian? Is the lass Scottish?”

“She is, actually. You two would probably get along well.” Claire paused in consideration before adding, “But I’d never be brave enough to introduce you to Gill. She treats embarrassing me in front of handsome men as an Olympic sport.”

Jamie nearly choked on his coffee. “Oh, does she now?” he managed between coughs, rapidly taking down mental notes. First, that Claire had just called him handsome, albeit accidentally. And second, he definitely needed to meet this Gill character, if only to see Claire blush again so sweetly. 

* * *

Jamie insisted on paying for dinner. After all, he claimed, it was the least he could do for the woman who had saved his hand and his career. He also insisted on walking Claire home; it was late, dark, and cold, and she was the tiniest bit unsteady on her feet as she struggled into her coat. 

They walked the three blocks to her flat, his arm around her shoulder, partly to make sure she didn’t fall, but mostly because it just felt natural. Being snuggled in close to Jamie — her wild curls nestled against his shoulder, his hand resting heavily at her waist — filled Claire with conflicting emotions. She felt safe and protected in a way she hadn’t known since she was a small child. At the same time, she experienced a sense of vertigo, as if she was standing on the edge of a cliff where the slightest breeze could knock her into the abyss. 

As they strolled down that final block, Claire’s internal angel and demon were still engaged in a pitched mental battle, the outcome far from decided. 

Should she invite him up for another drink? Was that too presumptuous? She didn’t think so; she might not be an accomplished flirt, but it didn’t take a degree in chemistry to read Jamie’s body language. The man was undeniably interested. 

But interested in _what,_ exactly? What was it that he wanted from her? And what did _she_ want from _him?_

The currents coursing through her body were deeper and more powerful than anything she could put down to simple sexual attraction. Could Jamie be feeling the same tide pulling at him, as well? Or was she reading too much int— 

“Sassenach? Are ye alright?” Jamie’s voice finally broke through the fog of Claire’s thoughts, and she jerked her head up in surprise. They were standing outside her building; her subconscious mind must have stopped her feet while her higher faculties were otherwise engaged. 

“Come up?” she blurted out before her natural caution could reassert itself. Whether her words shocked Jamie as much as they did herself, it was impossible to tell; aside from a slight twitch of the eyebrows, his expression remained composed and unreadable. 

They stood there in the cold Paris night, eyes locked and silent, for what felt like an eternity — an entire lifetime lived in ten seconds. When his reply finally came, Claire felt the rumble course through her limbs like an earthquake. 

“Aye, lass.” 

He took her hand and tucked it under his arm. “Wouldna want ye to take a tumble on the stairs and no’ be there to catch ye.”

* * *

Claire managed to get the key into the lock on the first try, sending up a prayer of thanks for the rock steady hands that were a hallmark of her profession. But while her hands might never betray her nervousness, she knew that her face was a different story; she purposely kept her back to Jamie as she unlocked the door and took the first few steps into her flat. 

The sound of the door closing behind him — a tiny click that reverberated in her mind like a thunderclap — froze Claire in her tracks momentarily, knees feeling suddenly weak. But still, she didn’t turn to face him, instead heading straight for the glass-fronted cupboard by the TV which served as her liquor cabinet.

“More red, Jamie?”

“I’d prefer some whisky, if ye have any,” he answered, moving behind her and reaching over her head to grab the glasses from the top shelf. 

Though he didn’t touch her, Claire could feel the heat radiating off of him, warming her back like the sun on a hot day. She had a sudden vision of them lazing on a picnic blanket in the park — sprawled out together with tangled legs and smiling faces — but she brushed the thought away. 

They settled on the couch with their drams in companionable silence. Claire toed off her shoes and crossed her legs, knee _just_ nudging Jamie’s leg. He laid his head on the back of the couch and let out a sigh which was half exhaustion and half contentment. 

“What’s on your dance card for tomorrow, Jamie? Busy day ahead?” 

“ _Ach,_ just some media training, of all bloody things. Apparently, astronauts are also supposed to be _celebrities_ these days,” he replied, rolling his neck around to release some pent-up tension. It was such a normal, unremarkable action, and yet Claire couldn’t stop herself from staring at the beautiful way his body moved. 

“Well, lucky you have the natural charm of most Scots to help you out with that,” Claire quipped, attempting nonchalance. “And where have they put you up? Some swanky hotel, no doubt.”

He barked out a laugh at that. “‘Fraid not, lass. Just some serviced flats over in the 15th Arrondissement. But for people who make a career out o’ living in tiny metal tubes, they’re spacious enough.”

Claire shot him a questioning look. “The 15th is on the other side of the city. Whatever brought you to _this_ neighbourhood?”

Jamie took a long drink before meeting her eye. “I'm no' sure, really. I suppose I felt like a walk.” At the skeptical raise of her brows, he continued. “My feet have a mind of their own sometimes. I dinna ken how to explain it, Sassenach, but they brought me here. I’ve learned to trust my instincts over the years and… it just felt right…”

Claire hadn’t realised that she was leaning into him as he spoke. Not until the moment she felt the touch of his breath on her face, that is. 

She hesitated then…

…but he didn’t. 

* * *

Jamie closed the gap between them and touched his lips to hers in a kiss that was gasoline thrown on a smouldering fire. 

The next few minutes were a blur of touch and sound, a reality of pure sensation unimpeded by thought. 

Jamie’s hands on her waist, pulling her to straddle his lap.

Claire’s hands in his hair, tangling through the wild auburn curls.

His mouth on her neck, growling as she writhed against his growing arousal. 

A moan escaping Claire’s lips as he unbuttoned her pants, fingers slipping below the scrap of lace that was the final barrier between them, their destination clear. 

Then suddenly her hands were on his chest, pushing herself back from him, breaking the seal of his mouth on her skin. Her face flipped between panic, confusion, and embarrassment so quickly that Jamie could barely keep up. It might have been comical in other circumstances, but he certainly didn’t feel like laughing at that moment. 

As she extricated herself from his lap and paced to the other side of the room, Jamie’s mind struggled to put words together, not sure what he’d done wrong but desperate to reassure her. 

“It’s alright, Claire,” he said, reaching out a hand towards her, but not closing the space between them, unsure whether his touch would be welcome. “Ye needn’t be afraid of me; I would never force myself on you. If you dinna want to —”

She cut him off abruptly, running her hands through her hair in frustration. “It’s not that I don’t _want_ to, Jamie...God, I _do_ want to...I’m just...I’m not ready for this just yet.”

And when their eyes met then, Jamie saw it. Saw it clear as day in those pools of whisky staring back at him. 

This woman — this beautiful spark of a woman — had been hurt before, badly, by someone she had trusted. 

In that moment, Jamie wanted desperately to wrap her in his arms and hold her gently, like a kitten next to his heart. In the same breath, he wanted to pay court to her body until unbridled pleasure drove the thought of other men from her mind.

In the end, he did neither of those things. Instead, he slowly rose from the couch, doing up his shirt — all its buttons still miraculously intact — his gaze never leaving her face. 

“It’s fine, lass. Truly. The last thing I intended was to rush ye into anything.” Claire made a noise as if to interrupt, but he forestalled her. “And dinna fash about me, Sassenach. I’m burnin’ for ye, make no mistake, but I’ll bide.”

“Bide? You mean...wait? For what?” 

“For whenever ye’re ready. Third date. Tenth date. Weeks. Months. I dinna ken, but I expect you’ll let me know, aye?”

These words obviously weren’t the ones Claire had expected to hear; she stood frozen to the spot, utterly dumbfounded. She continued to gape at Jamie, unspeaking, as he slowly backed towards the front door of her flat, shrugging back into his leather jacket with a glint of amusement in his eye.

“What do ye say to dinner again tomorrow night? Shall I pick ye up here at seven?”

She gave the briefest of nods.

And then he was gone.


	3. A Sky Full of Stars

Claire had been staring uselessly at her closet for what felt like an age. She knew what she needed to do: the thing she had been trying her best to avoid, for the intrusive questions it was sure to unleash. But the simple fact was that with Jamie due to arrive in just 24 minutes, she was in desperate need of help. 

Picking up her mobile with a resigned sigh, she typed out a quick message.

_You home? I need some fashion advice._

Two minutes later, Claire heard her front door open and close, followed by the click of fashionably high-heeled footsteps coming down the hall to her bedroom – where she stood surrounded by every article of clothing she owned, strewn across every flat surface available. 

“Did a hurricane pass through Paris wi’out my noticin’?” Gillian asked from the doorway, eyes twinkling with amusement. 

“Yes, that’s obviously what’s happened,” Claire replied, with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “Come on, Gill. I’m short on time and you’re the fashion guru. Help a girl out.”

Gillian sidled across the room and – relocating one of the piles to make space – made herself comfortable on Claire’s bed, legs crossed and eyes narrowed.

“Alright, my snippy wee friend. Tell me what it is that you’ll be _doing,_ and I’ll see what I can do.”

Claire ran her hands through her hair in frustration. “That’s the main problem. I don’t know!”

This bit of information was greeted with a quick twitch of perfectly sculpted eyebrows and an injunction to “Explain. Now.”

“All he said was that he’d pick me up at 7. Which is in….” Claire glanced nervously at the clock. “19 minutes.”

Gill’s face lit up in a mischievous grin. “Oh, so we’re no’ talking about a work function, then? Does this ‘he’ have a name? And why do you no’ just text him and ask what the plan is?”

Claire proceeded to give Gillian a quick rundown of the situation, knowing she’d receive zero helpful advice until she’d spilled the dirt. Yes, he had a name. No, she didn’t have his number. Yes, he’d exited her apartment somewhat...precipitously...the previous evening. No, she didn’t want to talk about it. 

“And what might this mystery man look like, eh? _Please,_ Claire, tell me he’s _handsome_ and not another drab history professor.”

“First of all, let’s not bring up Frank right now. Or ever again, actually,” Claire huffed, glancing once more at the clock. “And secondly, you’ll see him for yourself in 15 minutes, and I’d rather not still be naked when he gets here!”

“Och, I dinna think he’d mind so much, but as you wish.”

Several outfit changes later, Claire was giving herself a final once over in the full-length mirror, eyes meeting Gill’s over her shoulder. After some hurried deliberation, they had settled on her favourite pair of high rise black jeans (which conveniently hugged every one of her curves), a semi-sheer white blouse, and a maroon velvet blazer that brought out the amber of her eyes. 

“You look _magnifique,_ my dear. No red-blooded male could resist ye,” her friend teased. “Though I still reckon ye should wear the heels.”

“Mmmm,” Claire hummed, considering. “I have no idea how far we’ll be walking, Gill. And you know I don’t have your natural affinity for stilts. I think I’ll stick with the flats.”

“Fine. Fine. I see how it is. Drag me over here and then no’ even heed my advice.” She rolled her eyes dramatically. “Has anyone ever told ye that you’re practical to a fault, Cl–”

Gillian’s chiding was interrupted by the sound of a solid knock. Claire had guessed Jamie would be the ‘right on time’ type and – with the clock reading 7:01pm – that assumption was proven correct. But before Claire could make a move, Gill was already striding down the hallway at top speed, leaving nothing but an excited “I’ll get it!” in her wake. 

“Bollocks,” Claire groaned, hopping from one foot to the other as she hurriedly pulled on her shoes, crossing her fingers that whatever happened next would be only _mildly_ embarrassing. 

* * *

Jamie stood on the landing outside Claire’s flat, hoping he didn’t look as nervous as he felt. He’d spent most of the day in ‘media training,’ supposedly learning about press conference protocols and social media guidelines; what he’d _really_ been doing was trying to decide where to take Claire that evening, and then endlessly second-guessing himself once he’d finally settled on a plan. 

He had toyed briefly with the idea of wowing Claire with an expensive dinner at a fancy restaurant, of which Paris had an ample supply, but he concluded that Doctor Claire Beauchamp was a woman who would appreciate thoughtfulness more than expense. Now all Jamie could do was _hope_ that his instincts were right, or else this date was about to go down like a lead balloon. Hearing footsteps coming towards the door, he took a deep breath and tried to slow the racing of his heart. 

But when the door opened, the face that greeted him wasn’t the one he’d been expecting. Instead of Claire, there stood a red-headed woman, who proceeded to look Jamie up and down like he was a choice cut of meat. 

_“Pas un professeur d'histoire, bien sûr,”_ she murmured, a smirk lighting her face. 

Jamie experienced a brief moment of panic – _had he somehow gotten the address wrong?_ – but then his eyes met those of his brown-haired lass at the other end of the hallway, and he let out a small sigh of relief. 

He continued to watch her as she walked towards him – in fact, he couldn’t have torn his gaze away had he wanted to. _Ah Dhia,_ but she was lovely, the lines of her body long and graceful. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, riotous and wild; he felt his fingers twitch at his side, longing to bury themselves in those curls as they had the previous evening. 

When she reached the door, she gave him a sheepish grin. 

“Jamie. I see you’ve met Gillian.”

“A pleasure, lass,” he replied, stretching out a hand in the red-head’s direction. 

“The pleasure is all mine,” she replied, taking his hand and leaning in for the traditional French cheek kisses. “Claire failed to mention ye were a Scot, though I should have guessed immediately. You’ve the look of the Highlands about ye, to be sure.”

“Aye, I’m a Highlander, born and bred. From Broch Mordha, west of Inverness. And yerself?”

She gave a slight shrug. “Tranent, near Edinburgh. Though I havena been back to Scotland in far too long. ‘Tis a bonny place, but no’ conducive to working in fashion...unless yer interest is in designing kilts.”

Jamie let out a wry chuckle. “True enough. And I dinna see how the design could be improved o’ermuch. Though I’m always in the market if you’d like to try your hand.”

“Mmm,” she hummed, a predatory gleam lighting her eyes. “Tempting, but I think I’ll leave the _handling_ to someone else.” She turned towards Claire then, giving her a by-no-means-subtle wink. “Though if you decide ye dinna want the lad…”

Claire’s eyes widened in a mixture of shock and admonition. _“Good-bye, Gill-i-an,”_ she hissed, clearly enunciating every syllable so the dismissal was crystal clear. 

“Alright, I can take a hint,” Gill replied, in a tone of exaggerated offense. “Have a good evening wi’ yer fox cub.” Then she leaned in close to Claire’s ear and whispered at a volume still clearly audible to Jamie, “I. Expect. Details.” Then she turned and sashayed (there was really no other word for it) in the direction of her own flat. 

Claire turned back to face Jamie, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. But as she looked down and finally registered what he was holding in his hands, her expression immediately changed to one of amused curiosity.

“What’s with the helmet?”

* * *

Claire had never been on a motorcycle before. During medical school, she’d heard them referred to as ‘donor-cycles,’ and that was still how she mostly thought of them. Driving around at high speed, with no protection but a helmet and perhaps some leather, seemed utterly irresponsible – especially when cars and trains were equally convenient and far safer. She simply _did not understand_ the appeal. 

That was until she found herself sitting behind James Fraser, chest snug against his strong back, arms wrapped tightly around his middle. It took all of two minutes for Claire to decide that _this_ was the only way to travel, that she’d let this man drive her anywhere. Jamie navigated the traffic with a calm competence – movements sure and confident, never reckless – and she trusted him to get them safely to...well, to wherever it was they were going. 

Jamie had refused to tell her their destination; the only clue she had was what appeared to be a large wicker basket strapped behind the seat. With the helmets and the wind making conversation impossible, Claire settled in for the ride, simply enjoying the feel of Jamie against her and the rumble of the engine between her legs. 

Less than twenty minutes later, Jamie brought the bike to a halt, and Claire recognised exactly where they were. The Sacre Coeur Cathedral glowed white on the summit above, the green hill stretched out below like a carpet, inviting passersby to linger in the growing twilight. Boasting some of the most spectacular views of Paris, it was a popular picnic spot in summer – though on this chilly autumn night, Claire and Jamie had it nearly to themselves. The music from the carousel and the joyful sounds of its riders just barely reached them where they sat, unpacking what appeared to be a bottomless picnic basket.

“Has this thing been enchanted by Hermione Granger, by any chance?” Claire teased, extricating yet another wheel of cheese from the depths. “There’s enough food here to feed the Highland Army, Jamie.”

“I dinna think the Highland Army goes in for French cheeses, lass. I’m fairly certain they just eat parritch mornin’, noon, and night,” he retorted, handing Claire the glass of red wine he’d just finished pouring. He shrugged his shoulders a touch self-consciously. “Ye’re maybe right that I’ve over-catered...but I didna ken exactly what ye like, so I just bought some of everything.”

A delighted grin lit up Claire’s face. “Well, I’ll have you know that I like _everything,_ so now I’m really in trouble. If my self-control fails entirely, you may have to roll me back to the bike.”

“Ye’re none sae heavy, Sassenach. I’m sure I can pick you up and throw you over my shoulder, should the need arise.”

The image this statement evoked in Claire’s mind was startlingly vivid, and she nearly choked mid-swallow – attempting to cover her discomfiture by busying herself with slicing the baguette. 

Jamie, meanwhile, was lighting some candles he’d produced from the unknown depths of the basket. _Is there anything the man didn’t bring?_ Claire wondered, amazed by his thoughtfulness and the amount of time he’d obviously invested in his preparations. 

Just then, a gust of wind interrupted Claire’s revery, its icy tendrils finding the back of her neck and cutting through her light jacket, pricking her skin like a thousand tiny needles.

Jamie noticed her involuntary shiver and was beside her in a moment, wrapping a soft tartan blanket around her shoulders. “ _Ach,_ I’m such a clotheid, Sassenach. Leave it to a Scotsman to plan a picnic in November. Should we pack up and head indoors? Or we could find a restaurant instead, if ye’d prefer.”

His expression was of such genuine concern that Claire couldn’t stop herself from reaching out a hand to smooth the worried lines of his brow with her thumb. 

“Absolutely not, Jamie. It’s a beautiful evening to be outdoors,” she replied, as he took her hand from his face and wrapped it up in his own, rubbing lightly to warm it. “Just...come sit closer to me. If you don’t mind, that is.”

“No, Sassenach. I dinna mind a bit,” he replied, swiftly moving to settle next to her and wrap the blanket snugly around them both. Claire’s body temperature immediately shot up several degrees – though whether that was due to Jamie’s body heat (which was considerable) or simply the effect of his proximity on her own blood flow, she couldn’t be sure. 

They tucked into the feast with alacrity, feeding each other choice morsels while chatting about their days. 

“How was work, Sassenach? Any major crises at _l'hôpital_ today?” Jamie asked, passing her a bite of his favourite ashed chevre. 

“Not today, thankfully. Just two relatively minor surgeries which both went well,” she answered, chewing appreciatively. “It’s nice to have days like that; ones where you can celebrate the wins.”

“I’m glad to hear it, lass.” He grinned, moving to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “And the rest of the week ahead?”

Claire mentally trawled through her calendar. “I have a complex surgery tomorrow. Major spinal repair, so it’s a very delicate procedure. And then a day off on Sunday, which I desperately need to do about 15 loads of washing and finally clean my flat. It’s honestly atrocious at the moment.” She heaved a tired sigh. “And then I’m on call Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, though only a few straightforward surgeries are booked in. Crossing my fingers for no major disasters this week. I could really use a quiet one.”

She leaned into Jamie and rested her head on his shoulder. 

“And how was your training today, Captain? Learn anything worthwhile? Or was it one of those day-long things that _really_ should’ve taken an hour?”

He chuckled at that. “Aye, it was a bit o’erblown, if I’m honest. It was basically the comms lead telling us to be careful what we post on social media...repeatedly but in different words, for 5 hours. I ken they’re just lookin’ out for our reputations and that o’ the Agency, but I’m no’ completely daft.” He let out his breath in an aggrieved huff. “I’ve had Twitter for over a decade and havena posted any dick pics yet.”

It took Claire a minute to catch her breath after the fit of laughter this comment induced. When she could finally make words again, she gasped out, “And what’s your Twitter handle, Captain Fraser? No, wait, let me guess!” She affected a thoughtful pose, stroking her chin with her finger. “Is it something official and boring, like CaptainFraserInSpace?” 

A negative head shake from Jamie. 

“Ooh, so it’s something fun then? How about SpaceJam? Or maybe GingerNaut?” 

Another shake of the head. 

“Oh, please let it be ScotRocket!” Claire blurted, bursting into giggles again. 

Jamie gave her an admonitory stare, looking slightly ashamed but amused by her antics, before replying, “Promise ye willna laugh, Sassenach, and I _may_ consider tellin’.”

Claire did her best to compose her features, though the mischief in her eyes was clearly still visible. “I promise,” she said, holding up one hand in the classic oath-taking position. 

He narrowed his eyes at her skeptically. “It’s Star_Laird.”

Before she could start laughing again, Jamie quickly stuffed a bite of baguette into her mouth. “Hush now, _a nighean._ It isna polite to go back on yer word.”

And then they both collapsed, arms wrapping around each other as they shook with laughter. 

* * *

At last, Claire let out a satisfied groan, so full she couldn’t imagine taking another bite. Sprawling backwards to lie flat on the ground, she stared up at the night sky, which had now reached full dark. 

Jamie finished the last bit of wine in his glass and set it aside, then laid down next to Claire and resettled the blanket over them both. They stayed like that, unmoving and content, for several minutes before she finally broke the silence. 

“Tell me about them.”

Jamie turned his head to look at her, marvelling at the way the moonlight traced the outline of her profile and sparkled in her eyes, which still looked toward the heavens. 

“Tell ye about what, Sassenach?”

“Them,” she replied, with a slight upward nod of her chin. “The stars.”

“Oh, o’ course,” Jamie said, forcing himself to tear his eyes away from her face, then raising his arm to point at the brightest spot in the sky. “That one there’s Polaris, the North Star. It’s part of Ursa Minor, though most people ken it as the handle of the Little Dipper.”

“Mmhmm,” Claire hummed, snuggling closer to Jamie’s side, his arm wrapping snugly around her. “And what’s that one, just below it?”

“That one,” Jamie replied, tracing the serpentine shape with his outstretched finger, “is Draco, the Dragon. The ancient Greeks thought it was Ladon, the dragon slayed by Hercules in his labours. And just below and to the left there, you can see Hercules himself, sword pointed towards his foe.”

“Where’s Libra?” Claire asked. “That’s my star sign.”

“Sorry, lass. Libra is a summer constellation. Ye canna see it this time of year.” Jamie squeezed her against him with a laugh. “Do ye believe our fate is written in the stars, then?”

“Not really,” she replied. “But Gill is big for that kind of mystical stuff. She’s forever reading my horoscope .Apparently being Libran explains why I’m ‘too practical, indecisive and overthink everything.’ And what about you, Jamie? What’s your sign?”

“I’m a Taurus.” He pointed at a constellation on the other side of the sky. “That one there, the Bull. Which I suppose is fitting, since I’ve been known to be fair stubborn at times, at least according to my sister. And if anyone would ken stubborn, it’s Jenny Fraser Murray.” 

Claire breathed out a laugh. “Stubborn isn’t always a bad thing, though. It means you know what you want and go after it. I’m sure that bull-headedness is the reason you’re not in premature retirement right now.”

“Perhaps ye’re right, Sassenach. I do find it hard to let go once I get an idea in my heid, that’s true enough.” 

He turned towards her then and buried his nose in the mass of curls splayed across his shoulder, breathing her in.

“Hello? Earth to Jamie?” Her words seemed to snap him back to his senses.

“Sorry. I was off with the faeries. What were ye askin’?”

“I asked what that one is?” she said, pointing to a small dot near the horizon. “The one that isn’t twinkling.”

Claire felt Jamie stiffen slightly beside her, and he moved to check the time on his watch.

“ _Ach,_ the evenin’ has gotten well away from us, and ye have a big day tomorrow, ye said. Perhaps it’s best if I get ye home now,” he said, pressing a gentle kiss to her brow. “I promise we’ll continue the astronomy lesson another time, _a nighean.”_

* * *

Standing on the landing outside her flat, Claire shrugged out of the leather jacket Jamie had lent her for the ride home and handed it back to him, feeling suddenly uncertain. On the one hand, he was right; she had a big day tomorrow and needed a good night’s rest. On the other, this was the best date she could ever remember, and she wasn’t at all eager for it to end. 

“What’re ye thinkin’, Sassenach?” Jamie asked, obviously reading her face as he settled the jacket back onto his own broad shoulders. 

She met his eyes, smirking slightly. “I was just wondering if I should invite you in...again.”

He reached out a hand to cup her face, and she leaned into the touch. 

“As much as I’d love tae spend more time in yer company, Sassenach, ye should get some sleep.” His thumb lightly caressed her cheek. “But can I see ye again on Sunday? We both have the day off, aye?” 

She took a step closer, gripping his jacket by the lapels to bring him down to her. “Only if you let _me_ surprise _you_ this time, Star Laird,” she laughed into his mouth before kissing him soundly. 

At first, she could tell that he was holding back, needing her to take the lead after her hesitancy the previous evening. But after a few moments, obviously satisfied that her enthusiasm for this intimacy was genuine, he opened his mouth to meet her questing tongue.

He reached to tangle one hand in her hair, the other stroking down her back and continuing to head south until his strong fingers gripped her ass and pulled her tight against him with a stifled groan. 

Claire wanted nothing more than to exist in this kiss forever, every cell in her body lit by an electric current that felt strong enough to power all of Paris. But eventually her screaming lungs demanded oxygen, and she broke the seal of their kiss, gasping for air against Jamie’s swollen lips. 

“A surprise, ye say?” Jamie asked, smiling against her mouth. “I like the sound of that, Sassenach.”

He straightened up, reluctantly letting go his grip on her. She felt the loss of his touch acutely, but also recognised that if he was half as worked up as she was right now – and she suspected that he was – it was best to call it a night. 

“There’s only one more thing I need from you tonight, then,” she whispered coyly. 

His eyes widened at that, pupils dark and fixed intently on her face. “And what is that, _mo nighean donn?”_

“Your number.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long time between updates. I have really been struggling to get the creative juices flowing during lock-down. (I normally write at cafes! Now, with working from home, trying to write fic at the same desk I already sit at for 40 hours a week is a challenge.)
> 
> And for anyone interested, Captain Jamie Fraser can really be found on Twitter at @Star_Laird, so feel free to follow him and ask any burning questions you may have. ;)


	4. Impact

As he walked down the steps outside Claire’s building, Jamie tried to make sense of the conflicting emotions battling for dominance within him.

There was lust, of course. That one felt like a blazing fire in his veins, radiating out from his frantically beating heart to set every capillary alight. He would not have been surprised to look down and find his body glowing like a furnace, lit from within by the embers of that kiss.

There was also joy. A feeling of having drunk too much fizzy champagne, bubbles tingling on his tongue, tickling his insides. As if anchoring himself to the ground required a conscious choice, and – should he choose to  _ embrace _ the unbearable lightness instead – he could float right up to the sky, Willie Wonka be damned.

He had quite a bit of experience with lust, but the  _ excitement _ he felt in Claire’s presence was more than just sexual. It was something different, something… _ unusual. _ Jamie wanted to touch Claire in  _ every _ way; not only with his hands, but with his mind – caress her with laughter and undress her with words.

And  _ that _ was precisely the reason for the other (far less welcome) emotions roiling in his gut. 

The guilt.

The fear. 

The vertigo-inducing sensation of falling in slow motion, knowing it would hurt when he hit the ground but that the impact was unavoidable now. 

* * *

Jamie tossed and turned for most of the night, but must have drifted off eventually since he was rudely awoken by the buzzing of his mobile at 6 AM. He grabbed it off the nightstand with a weary sigh, already knowing what he would find.

_ Rise and shine, Cap. Time for a run. _

While sincerely tempted to roll over and ignore the message, Jamie knew that John would be knocking on his door in a few minutes if he did. Their temporary lodgings were in the same building, after all.

_ Ye’re gonna regret this, Grey. Give me ten. _

Not quite ten minutes later, Jamie opened the door to find John already waiting in the hallway. His friend’s appraising look obviously missed nothing.

“Did you not get much sleep last night, good sir?”

“No. And not fer the reason ye’re thinking, so no need for the Cheshire cat grin.”

“So it’s not to be a victory lap of the Champs-Élysées, then?” John replied, giving Jamie a commiserating pat on the shoulder on his way towards the door. “Welcome to the club, Fraser.”

Jamie shoved John playfully in the back as they emerged into the early morning light. “So I take it last night’s hunt for a tall, dark stranger was unsuccessful?”

“You’d be correct. So unless you’d like to help out a friend,” John winked suggestively over his shoulder as they began to jog down the footpath, “I figured a run would be the best way to sweat out some frustration.”

Jamie stroked his chin in mock concentration, as if carefully weighing up his options. John was so focused on his face that he didn’t notice the foot that reached out to trip him mid-stride, causing him to stumble rather dramatically.

“Ye’ll never catch me, Grey!”

And with that, Jamie was off like a shot, barking with laughter as he sprinted for the park.

* * *

“Hold on a second,” John panted, halting in the middle of the path to put his hands on his knees, doing his best to pull air into his burning lungs. “So the past two nights you’ve been out seducing that beautiful English surgeon? And you’re seeing her again tomorrow night?”

Jamie shot John a warning look, stretching his hands above his head to alleviate the stitch in his side. “I’m no’  _ seducing _ her.” He paused for a moment in consideration. “But dinna bother askin’ what I  _ am _ doing wi’ her, because I’ll be damned if I ken, John.”

John’s expression turned serious at that, eyes fixed on his friend who was busy wiping the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his shirt. “So this isn’t just another fling then? You’re  _ serious _ about this woman?”

Jamie’s lips curled in a wry smile as he replied, “As serious as I’ve ever been about anything.”

John knew his first thought  _ (Well, fuck.)  _ was best left unsaid.

He couldn’t deny that this reaction was  _ partly _ selfish. After all, he had been in love with James Fraser from the moment he laid eyes on the man, that first day at astronaut selection testing. When they’d both been chosen and placed on the same crew, John’s elation had been magnified by the knowledge that they would now be staples in each others’ lives – and by the fool’s hope that, given time, something more might grow between them.

Almost a decade later, John knew that Jamie  _ did _ love him – as a best friend, a confidante, someone he trusted with his life – and he had learned to appreciate that for the gift that it was, and to be satisfied with the parts of James Fraser’s heart that he did possess.

It was for that heart that he worried now.

Closing the gap between them, John placed his hands on Jamie’s shoulders so that the man would meet his eye.

“Have you told her yet?”

The muscles of Jamie’s jaw clenched as he replied, “Nah. I ken she deserves to know but… I’m a  _ coward, _ John. She’d be a fool not to turn tail and run… And I dinna want to lose her, man. I only just found her again.”

John pulled Jamie down to settle beside him on the grass. This discussion would be better had sitting.

“Cap, you know why we were chosen for this mission as well as I do. None of us have partners, kids. None of us are only children.” He leaned back on his elbows, staring up at the clouds floating past on the cool breeze – a sight he was determined to appreciate while he still could. “What we’re attempting is unprecedented.  _ Dangerous. _ And those type of bonds…they’re not fair for the ones left behind.”

He hesitated before voicing the final thing on his mind, but felt duty-bound to continue. “And anything that keeps our minds off the task at hand makes it that much less likely that  _ any  _ of us will be coming home.”

Jamie heaved a sigh, burying his head in his hands, fisting his curls so hard that John was afraid he’d rip them out by the roots. “Aye, ye’re right. I’m naught but a selfish fool. I just… my Da always told me I’d ken the woman who was meant for me when she came along,” he said, turning to face his best friend with an expression of absolute certainty.

“And he was right. I do.”

* * *

Jamie spent the rest of that day and much of the next rehearsing what he would say to Claire; how he would pull the pin on this grenade and hope to hell that it didn’t detonate every hope he had for the future in a single blast.

Her text on Sunday morning had been vague but playful.

_ Is a late lunch ok? 3pm at my place. No need to dress up, Buzz Lightyear. ; ) _

Immediately saving the number in his phone, Jamie had paused for just a second – debating which name to use – before settling on  _ Sassenach.  _ Wishing he had a photo to save along with the contact, he’d replied that of course he was at her complete disposal, to infinity and beyond.

Now, walking up the steps to her flat, he prayed to any god who would listen that by some miracle this thing between them would last the night, much less to infinity.

When she opened the door, the very sight of her stole the breath from his lungs. Her face was lit with a wide smile – red lipstick highlighting the sensuous curve of her lips. The colour matched her flowy sundress, patterned with flowers, and cut low enough that even Jamie’s considerable willpower couldn’t stop his gaze from lingering on the glorious cleavage it revealed. 

Before he could speak, she grabbed his hand and pulled him across the threshold, hurriedly kissing him once on each cheek. “Quick,” she chirped. “The timer’s just gone and I have to get the Yorkshires out of the oven before they burn!”

Following her retreating figure down the hallway, Jamie was suddenly hit with the most heavenly and nostalgic smells – ones that brought him straight back to his boyhood, sitting round the table as a family, devouring his Mam’s delicious cooking. Arriving in the kitchen, he marvelled at the sheer amount of food on display: giant platters of roast potatoes and parsnips, sauteed mushrooms, green salad, and a humongous roast beef resting on the sideboard.

“Oh, thank God,” Claire huffed, setting a tray of perfectly golden Yorkshire puddings down on the cooling rack. “I don’t have the best track record with these things. They’re bloody tricky!”

Jamie shook his head at her in amazement. “When ye said ye planned tae ‘surprise me,’ Sassenach, I wasna expecting ye to throw a party. How many people are comin’?” he asked with a laugh. 

He couldn’t help but admire the way she blushed so beautifully at his teasing. “Oh, very funny. So I may have gotten a tad carried away… I don’t cook very often, to be honest, and when I do it’s usually just for one.” She gave a slightly sheepish shrug. “Estimating portion sizes for a six-foot Viking might take some more practice.”

“A Viking, am I?” Jamie chuckled. He moved to stand behind Claire and wrapped his arms around her, nudging a stray curl out of the way with his nose to give her neck a gentle kiss. “Weel, it looks and smells amazing,  _ a nighean,” _ he whispered into her ear. “Thank ye for goin’ tae such trouble on my account. I haven’t had a proper Sunday roast in a long while.”

“You’re very welcome, Jamie,” she replied, leaning her head back against his shoulder. “My parents and I always had a Sunday roast when I was small. It’s one of the few things I remember from back then, and it was one of the things I really missed when I went to live with Uncle Lamb. It’s not exactly an easy meal to cook in an archaeological campsite.”

Jamie hugged her tighter, swaying the slightest bit back and forth, an almost imperceptible rocking motion. “Aye, I understand. We fell out of the habit after my Mam passed. Fer awhile, it was just too painful wi’out her, though I did miss it somethin’ fierce – just spendin’ time as a family, back when things were simpler. But Jenny started it back up once she had a bairn of her own. Her cooking is  _ almost  _ as good as Mam’s was.”

Giving Jamie’s arm a light squeeze where it rested around her middle, Claire asked softly, “Will you tell me more about your home while we plate up?” 

And so, while Jamie sliced the roast beef and Claire divvied up the side dishes, he spoke to her of Lallybroch: the family, the house, the lands, the tenants, and the surrounding countryside. He told her about his hopes to retire there someday, build himself a house on a part of the property near the loch – not too far from the main house, but not so near as to be living in Jenny and Ian’s back pockets. It was a spot he had loved as a boy, a place he would sit for hours staring at the mirror still waters. He even convinced Willie and Da to camp out there a few times, and at night it was even more magical. 

“The stars would reflect in the water, so they surrounded ye both above and below. It almost felt like ye were floating in space.” He paused, knife halting in midair, as the power of the memory overtook him. 

“It made me feel sae small… but no’ in a bad way, mind. I suppose I felt...at peace. Like I was a part of something greater than myself… a universe full of possibility. And I…” Jamie paused to swallow, pulling himself back to the present. “Well, I dinna think I’m describing it verra well, Sassenach.”

Claire gave him a reassuring smile. “It sounds incredible, Jamie. I’ve never been to the Highlands before, but I’d love to see them one day.”

“I’ll be going home fer a visit in a few months. Ye should come wi’ me,” he spoke without thinking, only realising the presumptuousness of his words once they’d already left his mouth. Jamie cleared his throat, which suddenly felt very tight. “I mean… if ye ever wanted, I’d be more than happy to show ye around. That is, I–”

His nervous rambling was interrupted by the unexpected feeling of something brushing against his leg, which made him startle like a skittish horse. Claire burst out laughing and bent down to scoop up what Jamie now recognised as a cat. 

“Sorry, I should have given a warning when I saw her sneaking up on you,” Claire sniggered, “but the look on your face was just too priceless.” She scratched the cat under the chin, eliciting a loud purring thrum. “This is Coco, and I believe she fancies her chances at a roast beef dinner.”

Jamie reached out to run his hand along the soft brown and white fur. “She’s a bonny wee thing, Sassenach.” Coco turned to give him an appraising look and Jamie paused for a moment in astonishment – the cat’s eyes were the exact same shade of amber as Claire’s, and he sensed a similarly keen intelligence behind them. 

“Will ye let me make friends wi’ yer cheetie by sneakin’ her bits off my plate, then?” Jamie asked, giving Coco a conspiratorial wink. 

* * *

Despite Jamie’s earlier teasing, the table was surprisingly bare by the time they both put down their forks. Claire was astonished at the amount of food the man could put away, and she felt particularly smug about the fact he’d enjoyed her cooking enough to go back for thirds of everything. 

While she packed away the remaining leftovers, Jamie turned on the fireplace and poured them each a dram from the bottle of 21-year Laphroaig, murmuring his appreciation with every sip. She pretended it just happened to be in her liquor cabinet, though in reality she’d purchased it earlier that morning, recalling his assertion that  _ “Islay Scotches are superior to any other whiskies, Sassenach, and I willna hear a word otherwise.”  _

When she returned to the living room, she found Jamie standing by the far wall – Coco cradled in one arm and tumbler in his other hand – staring admiringly at a painting depicting a blue vase filled with forget-me-nots. 

“Ye’ve a lovely art collection, Sassenach,” he commented, nodding his head toward the wall before him. “Are they all by the same artist?”

She immediately felt a flush of embarrassment wash over her face. “I suppose you could say that,” she replied. At Jamie’s confused expression, she reluctantly continued, “I’m not  _ really  _ an artist, though.”

“Ye painted these yerself?” He looked from her face to the wall of paintings, and back again in awe. “They’re  _ incredible, _ Claire. Mebbe it’s no’ yer profession, but ye’re most certainly an artist.”

Not quite knowing how to reply – having never been adept at receiving compliments – Claire simply took Jamie by the arm and led him down the hall. She had converted the second bedroom into a studio, she explained, and it was by far her favourite room. Quite unlike the rest of the flat, the space was chaotic and messy, half-finished canvases leaning (several deep) against the walls. 

Jamie made his way slowly around the room, admiring her current projects which were displayed on easels. Stopping before one – depicting a spice vendor in a busy marketplace – he asked, “Is this from a photograph or a memory?”

“A memory. His name is Youssef, and I used to visit his stall every weekend when we lived in Luxor, while Uncle Lamb was working in the Valley of the Kings.” Claire felt herself smiling as she recalled how Youssef would always sneak her extra sweets, usually pieces of basbousa that left her fingers sticky with sugar syrup. “I couldn’t have been more than ten years old, but I still remember him clearly. Egyptians really are the loveliest people.”

Jamie moved to stand beside Claire, putting an arm around her to grip her waist. “I’ve never had the chance tae visit Egypt, only seen the pyramids from above.”

“You can see the pyramids from space?” she asked, surprised.

“Weel, no’ quite with the naked eye, but using binoculars ye can see a great many things from space,” he replied, resting his chin lightly on top of her head. “Do ye miss it, Sassenach?”

Claire felt water gather in her eyes, though thankfully no tears actually fell. “Yes, terribly. I miss Egypt, and Peru, and Iran, and Cambodia, and all the places I grew up. But mostly I miss my uncle, and his partner Firouz, and all the friends I left behind.” She heaved a deep sigh. “Sometimes I can’t help but feel very alone, Jamie… and like maybe I always will be.”

Jamie turned her to face him, tilting her chin up until she met his eyes. She could tell he was struggling for words, his face shifting from one expression to the next, seemingly unable to settle on a single emotion. 

“Sassenach, I–” he began, sounding as if he were choking on the words. “I want more than anything tae say that ye’ll never be alone again; that I want to be the man who walks by yer side through thick an’ thin.” His eyes misted with emotion as he spoke. 

She reached up to cup his cheek in one hand, running a thumb over the stubble of his chin. “I’ve never felt less alone than when I’m with you, Jamie,” she whispered, lifting herself up onto her tiptoes, ready for the kiss she assumed was coming next. But when a moment passed and her lips weren’t joined by his, she realised that he had more to say. 

And from the darkness haunting his eyes, she was suddenly afraid to hear it. 

“I  _ want  _ tae tell ye that I’ll always be with ye, Sassenach.” He took a step back from her; one long, agonising step that felt like a giant chasm opening up between them. “But I canna… and I dinna want tae be just another thing that breaks yer heart.”

She felt her face fall as his words landed with a thud, like stones thrown down an empty well – her momentary elation turning to confusion and hurt.

“And why would you break my heart, James Fraser?”

His shoulders slumped in defeat as he delivered the final blow.

“Because I’m going tae Mars. And I dinna ken if I’ll make it back.”


End file.
